


The Morning After

by seaholly



Series: Guiding Hand [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, Cuddling, Discipline, M/M, Pre-Slash, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:58:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaholly/pseuds/seaholly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before, John went from being Sherlock's friend and flatmate to being his friend, flatmate and disciplinarian.</p>
<p>The morning after, they both have to start getting used to the idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> Follows on directly from Guiding Hand.

 

When John Watson woke up on the sofa in the living room of 221B Baker Street, early in the morning after what had turned out to be a completely surreal evening, he was chilled, stiff and very confused.

He’d stirred when the warm body beside him (was it beside him? No, more sort of across him) had moved, but what woke him up properly was the pained and startled yelp that immediately followed, in a voice that he would have sworn was Sherlock’s if Sherlock had ever yelped in his life.

John jolted upright from his slumped over position, and found himself looking rather dazedly up at—yes, it was Sherlock—Sherlock who was on his feet, tousled, rumpled and sporting a grimace of discomfort that was closer to a pout. He was rubbing gingerly behind him with both hands, and it was that which brought memory back to John in a rush.

Yes. Right. He had completely lost his patience with Sherlock last night, had finally snapped, dragged his barking mad genius of a flatmate over his lap and spanked the daylights out of him. And not only that, but he’d promised to do it again whenever Sherlock acted up enough to deserve it, which was doubtless going to be often. Good. Excellent. Because all of that made perfect sense this early in the morning.

Although it did explain the yelp. Apparently Sherlock had woken up and made the mistake of trying to sit, and it hadn’t been a comfortable experience. Not surprising, after the way John had walloped him. He’d bet Sherlock wasn’t going to be sitting comfortably for days, which frankly served him right after yesterday’s insanity.

And it also explained why they’d been sleeping on the sofa together, which wasn’t really the most sensible arrangement. It was a comfortable enough sofa for one person to sleep on, but it was a bit bloody cramped for two. Not that there’d been much choice last night, since Sherlock had been just about deadweight and John hadn’t wanted to leave him alone, but next time they were definitely going to do this in one of the bedrooms.

Next time. Because he’d promised there would be a next time. He’d decided to take up spanking Sherlock in an effort to keep him in line, and more importantly alive. And if that wasn’t bizarre enough, Sherlock had agreed to it.

Bloody hell, it was too early in the morning for this.

What time was it, anyway? Early, it felt early, but it was light and he could hear traffic outside. He’d left his watch upstairs in his bedroom. Although after the dip in the river last night, he’d probably be lucky if the bloody thing was still working. His phone had been in his jacket, and it hadn’t gone in the river—neither had Sherlock’s, thank God, or he’d have been unbearable until he got a new one—but it was also upstairs.

Not that it really mattered. It was daytime. Daytime, case solved, serial killers caught, Sherlock walloped within an inch of his life and now that John was awake, he was very aware that he was bloody starving.

Daytime. Morning. That meant breakfast. Oh God, yes.

He went to stand up, using his hands for leverage, and hissed in pain as his left hand protested the sudden pressure. He examined it once he was on his feet, flexing the fingers and wincing. There was no visible bruising, but it ached like hell. He looked up to find Sherlock, who seemed to have given up on soothing his own sore parts, eyeing him with some satisfaction, as if he was glad he wasn’t the only one who’d come out of it somewhat the worse for wear.

“I’m using a slipper next time. Or something,” John said pointedly. To his amazement, Sherlock actually flushed, looking very much like he wanted to shuffle his feet in embarrassment. He didn’t, of course, being Sherlock, but John thought that with the blushing and the pyjamas and the wildly tousled hair, it wouldn’t actually have looked out of place. Sherlock first thing in the morning could often look like a strange cross between mad scientist and little boy, but right now it was leaning heavily towards little boy.

He wasn’t sure what he expected Sherlock to say in return, but the reply, when it came, was quiet and carrying a definite note of trying-very-hard-to-sound-sort-of-casual.

“I can’t believe you did that.”

John’s first impulse was to answer, ‘Which part?’

His second impulse was to answer disbelief with disbelief and say, ‘I can’t either.’

He discarded both before they could become words, though, some instinct telling him that neither would be what Sherlock needed to hear. Sherlock had responded last night to him taking charge, to him being the authority figure. John had laid down the law and amazingly, Sherlock had complied. And he had seemed . . . well, not happy, or at least not at first, because John had no doubt that the spanking had bloody hurt. But he’d still complied, and afterwards, he’d been relaxed, almost peaceful, all the arrogance and spiteful temper purged as if it had been burned out of him. It was like John had broken open some cold, brittle shell that was Sherlock on top, only to find another Sherlock underneath, one who shed tears and said he was sorry and wanted to be comforted after being punished.

The image rang true for John. Yes, it had been like he’d found another Sherlock. A Sherlock he hadn’t seen before, but one who needed to be seen more often, even if it was only ever John who saw him. John didn’t know how he knew that, but he just did.

Just like he knew that his sounding uncertain in any way wasn’t what Sherlock needed to hear. This was the morning after, as it were, the time when awkward take-backs might happen after the heat of the moment had passed. But there weren’t going to be any take-backs, because when John Watson made a decision that he knew was right, he bloody well stuck to it. Sherlock needed to know that right from the start. Sherlock needed him to keep laying down the law, right from the word go.

And so he did. “You deserved every bit of it,” he said firmly. “Try to keep it in mind next time you get it into your head to do something mad. We’ve both agreed that’s what you’ll get when you act up from now on, only it won’t be with my hand next time.”

Sherlock’s flush deepened, his expression shifting rapidly. He looked like he was trying very hard to fall back on being haughty and superior but just couldn’t quite manage to pull it off. John supposed it had been one thing to hear this last night, when Sherlock had been in tears, emotions dragged to the surface, and clinging to John for comfort. It was probably quite another to hear it in the light of day when he’d regained most of his composure.

But he needed to hear it, and to realise that John was serious about it. There wasn’t going to be any backing down on this. John had made the decision and Sherlock had agreed. Case closed.

He directed a firm look at Sherlock to match his tone, letting his face and his posture call up definite shades of Captain Watson, the military man who was quite capable of giving orders and fully expected to have them obeyed. Sherlock stared back at him for several long moments, seeming to be searching John’s face, as if he were trying to work out some new and unfamiliar puzzle. Then, after a brief but silent staring match, something unidentifiable flickered through the grey eyes and Sherlock dropped his gaze, saying nothing but giving a short nod.

Case closed, indeed.

“Right then,” John said pleasantly. “Glad that’s settled.” He stifled a yawn behind his hand and rolled his shoulders, wincing as the bad one made a muffled popping noise. “I’ll tell you something else too, next time we’re doing it in the bedroom, that way we won’t end up sleeping on the bloody sofa.”

He cast a rueful glance at the piece of furniture in question, so comfortable to sit on but not nearly so much to sleep on when shared between two grown men . . . and suddenly noticed that there was a thick chequered blanket draped across it, which had obviously been covering them—or at least covering Sherlock, from where it was placed.

John gave it a puzzled look. Where had that come from? He was sure there hadn’t been a blanket on the sofa last night. If there had been, he’d have covered Sherlock up with it, since Sherlock hadn’t exactly been wrapped up warmly.

But perhaps that was it; Sherlock had got cold in the night and got up to get a blanket. John had been exhausted enough that he might not have noticed if Sherlock had moved. But then, if Sherlock had got up, would he have come back to sleep on the sofa instead of just going to bed?

This question was suddenly very important, because if Sherlock hadn’t got the blanket, and John hadn’t got the blanket, then how the hell had they ended up with a blanket?

“Sherlock,” he said warily, “did you by any chance get up in the night to get us a blanket?”

“No.” Sherlock also turned his attention to the blanket, but his expression wasn’t puzzled. Rather it was one of slowly dawning embarrassment. “You didn’t get it either.”

“No.”

“Ah.”

John realised that they had both come to the same conclusion about who must have put the blanket over them—because really there was only one person it could have been, and it didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to work it out—and he felt himself inwardly cringe as he imagined the picture they must have presented. “Oh, God.”

“She’ll have thought it was adorable,” Sherlock said neutrally, although his tone was belied by the ever deepening red flush in his cheeks.

“Yes, I’m sure,” John replied. “And what are our chances of ever living it down?”

“Approximately zero.”

“Right. Of course.” John stared at the offending blanket for a few moments longer, seeing Sherlock doing the same. No doubt they were thinking along much the same lines as well. God, what a picture they must have made. He could just imagine Mrs Hudson’s face when she’d seen them. He could only be grateful that he hadn’t woken up and actually witnessed it.

Well, he supposed it bloody well served him right for starting the whole thing right there in the living room. It had been his idea to spank Sherlock on the sofa and not even attempt to get him to bed afterwards, so now he’d just have to live with the embarrassment. He shook his head, then gave a reluctant chuckle as mortification grudgingly gave way to seeing the sort of funny side.

“Bloody hell. Well, if anyone was going to walk in on us like that, I’d take Mrs Hudson.”

“Quite,” Sherlock agreed, although his cheeks were still red.

John’s stomach gave a sudden growl, providing a welcome distraction from being hideously embarrassed. “God, I’m starving. I don’t suppose there’s anything edible in the kitchen.”

“I haven’t looked.”

“No, of course not.” Sherlock had been doing his usual starvation diet while he was on a case, surviving on tea and bloody sunlight. “Well, I need breakfast, and so do you after starving yourself for days. I’ll go down and get something from the café. They should be open by now.”

“That would be nice,” Sherlock said with uncomfortable dignity. John had to bite back a grin, knowing that Sherlock would be in no hurry to try to sit down on café seating. He hadn’t even seemed to find the very padded sofa much fun, if the yelp John had heard was any indication.

But he was quite willing to be a good friend and go and fetch breakfast up here. Not to mention, this way he didn’t have to wait for Sherlock to get dressed. John had already been hungry when they got home last night, and at this point he had the feeling that his stomach was going to start eating him if he didn’t put something else in it pretty sharpish.

He made the trip up to his room first, detouring to the bathroom (which smelt like a pile of fabric soaked in river water; he really needed to remember to do the washing later), then quickly changing clothes and grabbing his phone. A check of his watch didn’t reveal the time, but did let him know that the river had indeed been too much for it. He dropped it in the bin by his desk, made a mental note to buy a new one, and headed back downstairs.

He’d just hit the first floor landing again when he heard footsteps from below. Mrs Hudson’s voice followed a moment later, and John had another moment of serious inward cringing as he thought about the scene she must have walked in on last night. He knew Sherlock was right—she would have found it adorable—but that didn’t actually make it any less embarrassing.

Well, at least it had been Sherlock with his head in John’s lap, and not the other way around.

Telling himself that it could have been worse, he tried to keep his face neutral and pleasant and not look too mortified as he called a greeting to her.

“Morning, love,” she said warmly as she reached the top of the stairs. “I’ve just brought some breakfast up for you. The state you two were in when you came home last night, I wasn’t sure when you’d be surfacing to get it yourselves.”

John’s embarrassment lessened considerably in the face of breakfast spontaneously coming to him. “You’re a lifesaver, Mrs Hudson,” he said fervently, eyeing the bags she was carrying with unconcealed longing. “I missed dinner last night, and Sherlock’s barely eaten in days.”

“Oh, he is dreadful like that.” Mrs Hudson shook her head in motherly disapproval and bustled in through the open door to the living room. John trailed after her with his eyes on the bags, hoping he didn’t look too much like a hungry puppy as he followed her into the kitchen.

“I’ve got some scones and muffins from the café to tide you over, and then bread and bacon and eggs and all that here,” she said, somehow managing to find room on the table for the bags alongside Sherlock’s jumble of lab equipment. “Sherlock!” she called. “You come out here and eat something, young man!”

John fell on the collection of scones and muffins as soon as they were liberated from their bag, and had managed to wolf down three quarters of a scone before Sherlock appeared. He was still in his pyjamas, and his hair seemed to be getting more unruly rather than less, but he too made a beeline for the food. Having starved himself for days while he was working the case, if he followed his usual pattern, he’d probably spend much of today alternating between sleeping and eating.

As he finished his first scone and immediately started on a second, John thought he wouldn’t mind doing the same.

Mrs Hudson was eyeing Sherlock up and down, although he was ignoring the scrutiny in favour of concentrating on a scone. “Look at you, I don’t know,” she said. “Not eating for days on end and running around London like a mad thing and coming home half-frozen. You need a keeper, you do.”

Since these were sentiments that John had heard her express numerous times before, he didn’t read anything much into them apart from Mrs Hudson’s usual attempts to mother Sherlock. Scones or not, he was still hungry enough that his eyes were largely on the food as Mrs Hudson busied herself with unpacking the rest of it. She had brought them all the breakfast essentials—bread, butter, jam, cereal and milk as well as bacon and eggs. John gulped down another bite of scone and gave her a look of pure worshipful gratitude.

“Mrs Hudson, I could kiss you.”

“It’s no trouble, love, I was at the shops anyway,” she said. She gave the fridge a wary look as she picked up the milk. “Sherlock, is there anything horrible in there? I’m not opening it if there are feet or fingers or something like that in it again.”

Sherlock’s mouth was too full of scone for him to reply, but he shook his head. Even so, John watched Mrs Hudson open the fridge with vague concern, and was relieved when in fact no feet or fingers lay inside.

Once everything that needed it had been put in the fridge (although John fully intended to take most of it out again; he had his heart set on those bacon and eggs), Mrs Hudson went to leave, but before she did she cast a last assessing gaze over Sherlock (who had started in on the muffins now). Whatever she saw, she seemed to approve of, because she turned to John and smiled at him, warmly but with just a hint of mischief.

“Well done you,” she said. “It’s about time someone took him in hand.”

John almost choked on the scone he was eating. Sherlock had seemed oblivious to everything but the muffins, but his head came up sharply at that and he hastily swallowed the bite he was chewing. “He did not take me in hand!” he said loudly, in tones of pure and mortally insulted indignation.

“No, love, of course not,” Mrs Hudson agreed. Her tone suggested she would have patted Sherlock on the head if she’d been closer to him, and the knowing smile she gave John on her way out pretty much said it all.

John could only stare after her, stunned and mortified all over again. Oh, bloody hell. Bloody buggering fucking hell. He’d been working under the assumption that she’d seen them sleeping on the sofa together, that she’d have thought it was sweet but just assumed they’d been so tired after all the running around and river-dipping that they’d passed out. All right, Sherlock sleeping with his head in John’s lap would have been a bit odd, but exhausted people frequently did odd things.

But ‘took him in hand’? Bloody hell, how much had she _heard_?

Clearly, the answer was ‘quite enough to make a good guess at what was going on’.

Oh, bloody buggering fucking hell in a handbasket.

While John was silently swearing to himself, Sherlock had been staring at the spot where Mrs Hudson had been, his face a study in outrage. He seemed to have forgotten all about the muffins, and after a moment he began to pace back and forth across the kitchen, almost vibrating with agitation.

“About time someone took me in hand indeed!” he muttered furiously. “What nonsense! I’ve never needed taking in hand in my life!”

The fact that Sherlock seemed to have a minor tantrum brewing, combined with the ridiculous statement he’d just uttered (because there were probably few people in the world who needed taking in hand more than Sherlock did), was enough to snap John out of his own embarrassment. What was done was done; there was nothing they could do about it now. Best calm Sherlock down before he worked himself up into pitching a real fit.

“All right, it’s not the end of the world,” he said, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “So she knows what happened, or she has an idea. It’s only Mrs Hudson. She’s not going to tell anyone.”

He’d said all that to make Sherlock feel better, but ended up making himself feel better instead, as he realised that it was actually all true. Yes, Mrs Hudson seemed to know what had happened, and yes, that was bloody embarrassing. But just as he’d have rather had Mrs Hudson see them sleeping on the sofa together than anyone else, likewise if he had to choose someone to know that he’d spanked Sherlock Holmes, she would be the one he’d pick. She loved Sherlock, John knew that, and he thought she might be getting rather fond of him too. They both knew they could trust her; she wasn’t going to tell anyone about it.

Besides, she lived in the same building, right underneath them for God’s sake. And she came up here all the time. If John was serious about spanking Sherlock whenever he acted up—which he was—then she probably would have found out sooner or later. As it was, she’d just found out sooner.

And what was more, she seemed to completely approve. ‘Well done you’, she’d said. John was a bit surprised by that, to be honest—she could be so protective of Sherlock. Although, she did also get completely exasperated with him at times, too. Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that she’d approve of someone ‘taking him in hand’, so long as it was the right someone.

Despite lingering embarrassment, and concern that Sherlock was about to turn a minor tantrum into a major one, John found he was rather pleased that Mrs Hudson would think he was the right someone.

Sherlock, however, seemed unimpressed by John’s attempts to offer reassurance. He stopped his pacing and glared, although the whole pyjamas-and-messy-hair thing rather took away from the effect.

“I know she won’t tell anyone!” he snapped. “That’s not the point! The point is what she said!”

He was really working himself up now, and he looked so petulant that John was vividly reminded of the previous night, a little voice in his head groaning, _bloody hell, I’m not going to have to do it again already, am I?_

He really hoped not. For one thing, he’d definitely have to go and find an implement of some kind, because his hand was bloody sore. For another, Sherlock couldn’t sit down as it was. Surely he’d rather wait at least a day or so before they had to go another round?

But then, this was Sherlock, and God knew he didn’t always think ahead.

In a last ditch attempt to forestall a real tantrum, John decided that if reassuring him wasn’t going to work, then maybe being Captain Authority Figure would. Hadn’t he just been thinking earlier that Sherlock had responded to that? Hadn’t he even demonstrated it to them both, not half an hour ago? Yes, he had. So, time to find out if Sherlock was going to keep responding to it.

“What she said is that it was about time someone took you in hand,” he said sharply. “And frankly I agree with her. And yes, I did take you in hand, and yes, I’m going to keep doing it, as we agreed, and what’s more I’m going to do it very shortly if you don’t calm down. Now behave.”

Sherlock had gaped at him throughout this little speech, his eyes widening until he looked even more little boyish than before. John kept his stern face on, his Captain Watson face, and looked Sherlock right in the eyes, daring him to keep throwing his tantrum while silently hoping that he’d think better of it.

After another staring match, during which Sherlock’s expression slid from disbelieving to outraged to disbelieving again before finally settling on a wary pout, John crossed his arms over his chest and raised his eyebrows.

“Well?” he demanded, when Sherlock remained silent. “Are you going to behave, or are we going to take a trip to the bedroom?”

Sherlock stared at him for several moments more, then he said in a low voice, “You wouldn’t.”

It was made as a statement, no hint of rising intonation on the end to give it away, but John knew it was a question.

“I bloody would,” he said. “And I will. Want me to prove it?”

More staring. And then there was another flicker in those grey eyes, and Sherlock shook his head. “No,” he said quietly.

“Good,” John said, breathing an internal sigh of relief. “In that case, come and eat. You’ve been starving yourself for days. I’ll make bacon and eggs in a minute.”

That got him an interested look, and after a moment Sherlock came grudgingly but obediently back over to the table and resumed his attack on the muffins. John went to retrieve the bacon and eggs from the fridge, finding himself quietly amazed at just how well this whole authority figure thing seemed to be working. He would never have guessed that Sherlock would respond like this to someone laying down the law the way he was.

_He wouldn’t, not to just anyone_ , his internal voice supplied. And that was true. John had seen it for himself, Sherlock ignoring and arguing with and dismissing and resenting anyone else’s attempts at telling him what to do. But somehow this, with John, was different. _They_ were different.

And thank God for that, because it was going to make keeping Sherlock in one piece a hell of a lot easier to do.

With Sherlock settled, or at least no longer on the verge of throwing a tantrum, and because the scones hadn’t even made a dent and he was still bloody starving, John turned his attention to making a more substantial breakfast for them both. As he cooked, Sherlock alternated hovering in the kitchen by the muffins and wandering out into the living room and back. He didn’t sit down, not even once, and John wondered with some concern just how sore he really was.

He knew he had given Sherlock quite a walloping, there was no question about that, and since it had been over pyjamas he hadn’t been able to see the damage while he was doing it. Sherlock didn’t seem especially uncomfortable when he was standing up, so he certainly wasn’t maimed for life, but John was still concerned enough that he was starting to think he should get Sherlock to let him have a look, just to make sure. He didn’t know how willing Sherlock would be, though.

A good assembly of bacon and eggs and toast later, he piled heaping amounts onto two plates and turned to Sherlock, who was eyeing the food with all the expected longing of a man who’d been starving himself for days. “Eat at the table?”

Sherlock hesitated, then said in carefully neutral tones, “I think I’ll just eat at the bench.”

John nodded and handed over the plate, and then took his own to the table in the living room. He didn’t want to hover and make Sherlock feel uncomfortable, but he decided that after breakfast, he was definitely going to broach the topic of checking out the damage. He knew it wasn’t going to be anything major, but even so the doctor in him wouldn’t let him ignore it without being sure.

With both of them being half-starved, breakfast didn’t last long. John had cleaned his plate in no time and was feeling comfortably full for the first time in days, and when he went back out into the kitchen he found that Sherlock had done the same. John dumped both plates in the sink and decided that he might as well get on with this before Sherlock got sleepy from the food and passed out again.

“Sherlock,” he said, “I’m not trying to rub it in or anything here, but how sore are you?”

Sherlock straightened up from where he’d been examining his lab equipment, casting a narrow-eyed look at John’s face before fixing his eyes on the opposite wall. His expression said that he wasn’t at all keen on answering that question, but after a long moment he replied with an obvious attempt at dignity, “Quite.”

John nodded. Haughty act aside, he was glad Sherlock was willing to admit it—although his reluctance to sit down did rather give it away. “Okay. Well, I think it might be a good idea if I had a look.”

There was a long pause, and then Sherlock echoed, “You want to have a look.” He said the word ‘look’ as if it was some foreign and rather distasteful concept.

“Yes,” John agreed. “Just to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said, turning away as if to end the conversation. “You don’t need to have a look.”

John sighed inwardly. He’d known it wasn’t going to be that easy. Of course it wasn’t; this was Sherlock they were talking about.

“I would like to anyway,” he said, with a bit more emphasis this time. “To make sure you’re okay.”

Sherlock made an impatient noise. “I said I’m fine. It hurts, but it’s hardly life-threatening. Besides, I rather thought that was the entire point. Isn’t it supposed to hurt?”

He was sounding more sullen by the moment, and John reminded himself that Sherlock was still exhausted. He was probably going to be doing that yo-yo mood thing all day, at least as long as he was awake.

Trying to sound as patient and reasonable as he could, he replied, “Yes, within reason, but you’re obviously pretty bloody sore. Sherlock, come on. We’re both blokes, and I’m a doctor. You do not have anything I haven’t seen before.”

“Not the point,” Sherlock said shortly, turning away again.

“Maybe not,” John said with a sigh. The stubborn set of Sherlock’s shoulders told him that Sherlock was gearing up for another fight, and John decided that he’d better stop dancing around the issue and just put his cards on the table. If they were going to be making a habit of this—and it was becoming more obvious by the minute that they were—then he couldn’t have Sherlock fighting him every inch of the way, and he definitely couldn’t have him refusing to be cared for afterwards. He was interested in keeping Sherlock alive and intact, not in becoming some kind of flatmate version of an abusive spouse.

“Sherlock,” he said, and waited until Sherlock had reluctantly turned back to meet his eyes. “Look, you know what we’ve agreed to here. This is going to happen again. I’d say might, but it’s not might and we both know it. It will happen again. And I don’t have a lot of experience in this, and I need to know what sort of damage I’m doing. I know I was pretty hard on you last night, and if you’ve got bruises, you’re going to feel a lot better if you let me take care of them.”

Sherlock had obviously been trying to keep his face blank, but the emotions were chasing themselves across it despite his efforts. He finally managed to force his expression back into mostly neutral, although his eyes didn’t quite get there, and he gave John a valiant attempt at a haughty look.

“If I’ve got bruises, I don’t want you to see them.”

John met the semi-haughty look with a firm one of his own. “If you’ve got bruises, I’m _going_ to see them.”

“It’s unnecessary,” Sherlock insisted tightly, crossing his arms over his chest as if to ward John away. “I’ll be _fine_.”

“I’m sure you will be fine,” John agreed. Sherlock could argue all he wanted, but John was not going to back down. He willed Sherlock to realise this, to see where this was going and to stop before they got there. “But right now you’re in pain and I’m a doctor and I still want to have a look to be sure.”

Sherlock sounded like he was gritting his teeth now. “I would rather you didn’t.”

Sherlock seemed to be trying every possible way to say no without actually saying the word no. John supposed that said something in itself, even though Sherlock wasn’t being any less stubborn for lack of an outright refusal.

He sighed inwardly. He’d hoped Sherlock would cooperate without John having to play Captain Watson yet again this morning, but his hopes were starting to fade. True, Sherlock wasn’t actually saying an outright no, but he was saying the next thing to it, and he was saying it over and over again with no sign of relenting. They weren’t going to get anywhere like this, and if they kept arguing back and forth it would only end in another tantrum.

All right. One last try. One last appeal to reason.

“I understand,” John said, trying to put understanding in his tone, along with a sort of this-is-your-last-chance firmness. “I do, and I’m sorry if it’s embarrassing. But I need to make sure you’re okay, and that’s all there is to it.”

Sherlock shook his head once, a vigorous back and forth, making his messy curls bounce. “I’m fine. I’ve told you I’m _fine_. And it’s not embarrassing.”

“Then there’s no reason not to let me see, is there?” Simple logic, although at this point John wasn’t expecting logic to do any good.

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms more tightly. “I can think of nine just off the top of my head.”

And that right there was enough, John decided. They were just going round and round in bloody circles now, and making exactly zero progress apart from edging Sherlock closer to another fit of temper. Time to go back to laying down the law.

Giving up on reasoning with Sherlock as the lost cause that it was, John bowed to the inevitable and put his Captain Watson face back on.

“All right, I think that’s enough. Sherlock, I’ve told you—I need to make sure you’re okay. I am going to make sure you’re okay.” There was stern emphasis on every word that time. “Now stop arguing with me and let’s get it done.”

Sherlock’s voice was tight and clipped with tension, grey eyes gone stormy. “John.”

“No, Sherlock,” John said sharply. “I said enough. How many bloody power plays are we going to have to have this morning? I’m counting three so far and we’ve only just finished breakfast.”

Another look at Sherlock’s face, which might as well have been named ‘A Study in Stubborn’, made him decide to be completely blunt.

“We’ve come to an agreement,” he said. “When you act up, I’m going to hand out consequences. And then I’m going to look after you when it’s over. This is going to be part of that, so you’d better start getting used to it. Now I’m going to go upstairs and get the arnica cream, and you’re going to go and lie on your bed and wait for me. Do it, Sherlock. Now.”

Oh yes, that was definitely Captain Watson again, giving orders and expecting instant obedience. It was funny just how easy it was to fall back into that role.

That little speech had resulted in another of those rapid shifts of emotion playing across Sherlock’s face, as though he was struggling to find a feeling to settle on. He finally stopped on something that looked just short of outright rebellion, and bit out in a low, agitated voice, “And if I say no?”

And if that wasn’t begging for a response, then John would eat Sherlock’s posh scarf and his bloody coat.

He made it to where Sherlock was standing in three quick steps, part of him noting as he did that Sherlock made no attempt to back away. This made it much easier for John to grab Sherlock’s arm, spin him around, and plant a single, hard smack dead centre across the seat of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms.

His bruised hand throbbed in protest, making him wince, but Sherlock’s reaction was rather more dramatic. He yelped loudly and jumped like he’d been stung, wrenching his arm free and giving John a wounded, furious look. John ignored it, keeping his tone stern.

“Now that sounds like bruises to me. I don’t want to spank you again when you’re already so sore, but I will if I have to. So do as you’re told!”

John didn’t know if it was the shock of being smacked, the use of the word ‘spank’—it was the first time he’d actually said it out loud—or the ‘do as you’re told’, or in fact all of the above, but Sherlock flushed darkly, swallowing hard as he stared at John with wide, astonished eyes.

Then, abruptly, he whirled around and stalked off down the hall towards his room, vanishing into it and slamming the door behind him.

Well, John thought wryly, at least he’d gone to his room.

With Sherlock safely contained—hopefully—John headed for the stairs, hoping he wouldn’t have to deal with another battle when he came back down. He retrieved the arnica cream from the bathroom and was half-tempted to take a slipper down with him as well, just in case Sherlock did kick up yet another fuss. His hand really was aching too much to do any more spanking with it. But then, with the state Sherlock’s backside must be in, John wasn’t especially keen to take a slipper to him now either. Hopefully, _hopefully_ that one smack he’d given him in the kitchen would have been enough to convince Sherlock to cooperate.

Deciding to be optimistic, John went back downstairs armed only with arnica cream. After all, he could always go back up again and get a slipper if he really needed it.

He tapped on Sherlock’s bedroom door and waited a moment. When no reply came, he opened the door and peered inside, and found himself instantly having to bite back a grin. He had told Sherlock to lie on his bed and wait for him, and Sherlock was doing just that—face down and head buried in a pillow, with his arms wrapped around it like a kid with a stuffed toy. He was sprawled out like he’d thrown himself down there and not moved since, which John thought was probably exactly what had happened.

“I’m here,” he announced unnecessarily, stepping in and closing the door behind him. “Let’s have a look, then.”

Sherlock didn’t move or say a word, having apparently decided to pretend that John didn’t exist. John ignored the obvious sulking and crossed to the bed. “Sherlock.”

He waited a moment, but there was still no reply, so he repeated it with a bit more emphasis. “ _Sherlock_.”

One of Sherlock’s feet thumped the mattress in irritated fashion, and a muffled, “What?” came from the depths of the tightly clutched pillow.

“Are you going to pull them down, or am I?”

There was a long, sullen pause, and then Sherlock surged up onto his knees, yanked his pyjama bottoms down in one quick, angry movement and flopped petulantly back onto the bed, burying his face in the pillow again.

John battled for a moment between the conflicting urges to either laugh, or just smack Sherlock yet again for behaving a like a sulky five-year-old, and manfully refrained from doing either one. Instead he propped a knee up on the edge of the bed and leaned over to flip Sherlock’s dressing gown out of the way so that he could see the damage.

Seeing Sherlock half naked—well, all right, maybe a quarter naked—didn’t faze John in the slightest, but he did give a low whistle when he saw the state of Sherlock’s backside. The bruises weren’t actually terrible, much to John’s relief, because if Sherlock had been black and blue he really would have felt like a brute. Even so, there were some impressive red and lilac splotches, especially on the lower areas of his bottom just above his thighs. The fact that Sherlock’s skin was so pale made them stand out even more vividly, but still, John could well understand why Sherlock had been so studiously avoiding sitting down.

He could also understand why Sherlock had yelped so loudly when John had smacked him in the kitchen just before—and why he’d started cooperating so quickly afterwards, despite still being in a stroppy mood. John could see the hand-sized red mark where the smack had landed, and it had probably caught a few of the more sensitive spots. It was no wonder Sherlock hadn’t wanted to try for any more after that one.

“Okay,” he said, keeping his voice light and reassuring. “Well, it’s no wonder you’re sore. You’ve got a few bruises down here. Nothing awful, but I can see why it hurts.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, but John could see how tense he was, like a nervous animal that disliked being handled. He thought for a moment, then he put a hand on Sherlock’s lower back, patting a couple of times before starting to rub gently back and forth. Sherlock did like being handled sometimes, because he had certainly seemed to enjoy having his back rubbed last night. Maybe some more of the same would help him to calm down now, and it meant John could ease him in with a more neutral touch before he moved on to the more personal areas.

“I’ll put some cream on it,” he said, continuing to rub as he spoke. “That should help with the pain and help the bruises go down. This stuff doesn’t sting, and I’ll be gentle, all right?”

Sherlock still didn’t say anything in return, but John thought he might be starting to relax just a little—probably against his will if he knew Sherlock, but a result was a result. Not one to give up on a thing, he kept rubbing, alternating the back and forth motion with gentle circles that let his hand move a bit lower, letting Sherlock get used to the idea.

There were no telltale signs that Sherlock might like this, as there had been last night, but John hadn’t expected any. Sherlock had been trying all morning to put his icy composure back on, and he probably wasn’t about to let himself enjoy being petted like he had when his emotions were so close to the surface.

Even so, Sherlock did relax, little by little, the tension slowly bleeding out of him under John’s hand. He kept his face buried in the pillow—and God only knew how he wasn’t suffocating in there—but John made no comment on it. If Sherlock needed a pillow as a shield to cope with being vulnerable like this, then that was fine. Actually it was seriously endearing, not that John was going to say that to Sherlock.

Finally, when he thought Sherlock might be as relaxed as he was going to get in these circumstances, John left off the back rubbing and popped the lid off the arnica cream. He scooped out a fingerful and gave Sherlock’s back a last pat with his other hand. “Okay, here we go. Might be a bit cold.”

Sherlock tensed again instantly at the first touch of John’s hand on his bottom, although whether it was because the cream was cold or that the contact was painful, John didn’t know. Sherlock might just have been startled by the touch in a more intimate area; it was all very well for John, who was used to touching other people both as a more tactile person and as a doctor, but Sherlock kept himself so buttoned up and isolated, both emotionally and physically, it was likely that he wasn’t used to being touched at all, let alone like this.

That didn’t mean he didn’t want it, though. John thought again about the way Sherlock had melted into his touch last night, clinging to him for comfort, making those contented little sounds when John had rubbed his back. And just now, too—Sherlock had been tense and caught up in a massive sulk, but even so he’d started to relax under John’s soothing touch. Sherlock definitely didn’t dislike all physical contact, or at least not when it was John doing the contacting. John found he liked the thought of that; not only would it make things much easier in their new arrangement, but he was pleased to think that Sherlock would trust him to break through his self-imposed isolation.

He made sure to go as gently as he could with the cream, being mindful of areas that looked especially tender while still trying to make sure that all the sore parts got tended to. Looking at the damage now, he found himself shaking his head as he remembered that Sherlock had taken this without crying out once. Yes, he’d been in tears by the end, but he hadn’t let out so much as a yelp when it was actually going on.

Too bloody stubborn for his own good, John thought, and before he knew it he was repeating the sentiment out loud, his tone caught somewhere between teasing and mild disapproval.

“I can’t believe you took all this without making any noise. You didn’t have to be that stubborn, you know. I didn’t demand silence; you were allowed to say ow.”

There was more non-demanded silence in return, and after a few moments John thought Sherlock was going to keep ignoring him. But then a muffled reply came from the pillow, which John was just able to make out as (probably), “I have a high pain tolerance.”

He did, too, John knew. He had no doubt that Sherlock could take a beating without so much as a whimper if he had to. But that wasn’t the point of what they were doing here, what they were going to be doing here from now on. For one thing, there wasn’t going to be any beating. And for another, it just wasn’t necessary that Sherlock try to stay silent under punishment until he finally broke. It wasn’t necessary, and it wouldn’t be good at all, and John wasn’t going to have it so he thought he’d better make that clear right now.

“I know you do,” he said. “And that’s all well and good, but I wasn’t actually trying to torture you. I wasn’t and I won’t be. When we do this, I don’t want it to hurt to the point of being unbearable. That’s not how it works, Sherlock. I’m not interested in hurting you until you break, and you need to understand that right now. It’s meant to be unpleasant enough that you don’t like it and you don’t want it to happen again, that’s all. And I definitely won’t be asking you to stay quiet. You’re allowed to let me know you don’t like it. Say ow. Cry out if you want to. I need to know how you’re feeling so that I know when to stop.”

There was another long pause, and then Sherlock said, still talking through the pillow, “I don’t know if I can do that.”

At least that was what John thought he said. It made sense in context, so he was pretty sure.

And he could understand. Someone as self-contained as Sherlock was probably going to have trouble with the idea of letting go and showing his discomfort, especially in a situation where he was so vulnerable. He might be able to after some time, as he slowly got used to it, but until he did it was going to be a problem.

And since John wasn’t interested in Sherlock constantly being bruised and unable to sit down—because he wasn’t even going to try to fool himself that they wouldn’t be doing this fairly regularly, given the way Sherlock behaved—that meant they’d need another solution in the meantime.

John had already thought of one, but he suspected Sherlock wasn’t going to like it.

“I get that,” he said. “I understand. But I hope you understand that until I get more of a feel for this, I need to make sure I don’t go too far. And if you can’t tell me, then we need another solution, right?”

Silence from Sherlock, but there was a new tension to him, a sort of wary anticipation. He was waiting to hear what John would say next. John hesitated briefly over how to word it, how to pitch it, but then abruptly decided that he should probably just do what had already been working so well this far, and just _tell_ Sherlock what was going to happen. Captain Authority Figure again, just a slightly milder version.

“I need to see what I’m doing,” he said bluntly. “I need to see what kind of marks I’m leaving on you while I’m doing it. So from now on, you’re getting it bare. I’m not going to risk really hurting you without knowing it just because you’re being extra stubborn that day.”

There was a long, tense silence after that, and John quietly braced himself for the fight that was surely going to ensue. Because really, there had to be a fight coming about this. Sherlock had agreed to being spanked, which was inconceivable enough. He’d even agreed to being comforted afterwards, which for Sherlock was almost more inconceivable. But agreeing to being spanked bare? For God’s sake, Sherlock hadn’t even wanted to let John see the bruises, not even for a bit of doctoring. He was going to throw a fit at the very idea, and John would have to put on the Captain Authority Figure face for real and lay down the law to him, again. He’d win the fight, he had no doubt about that, but he was absolutely positive that there was going to be one.

But Sherlock, who seemed to be trying to be as contrary to expectations as it was possible to be, surprised him yet again. Sherlock, who had been doggedly and determinedly stroppy all morning, who had initiated not one but three little power plays already that day, simply shifted a bit where he was lying, hugged the pillow a little more tightly to his face, and said, “All right.”

And muffled by the pillow or not, John definitely understood that one.

“All right,” he echoed, and he sounded highly dubious; he just couldn’t help it.

Sherlock twitched and thumped a foot on the mattress again, and the pillow-smothered reply that followed sounded very much like, “You’re not deaf, John. I said all right.”

Well, there was the stroppiness back again. Oddly enough, it made John feel better. Sherlock being stroppy was reassuringly normal.

And he’d agreed. Again. To something John would have thought he’d throw an absolute fuse-blowing fit about. Again.

God, he was never going to understand Sherlock Holmes.

Still, he certainly wasn’t going to argue with Sherlock deciding to cooperate. It was another of those gift horse moments, and John wasn’t going to so much as glance at its mouth. “Okay then,” he said, nodding to himself. “Glad we’re agreed on that.”

He glanced down, realising that at some point during their conversation he had stopped his ministrations with the cream, and his hand had settled once more on Sherlock’s lower back instead. It had been an instinctive thing, to keep his hand on Sherlock while they talked, to keep that connection of soothing touch open. Fleetingly, he wondered if it had made a difference. He’d probably never know.

“How does it feel now?” he asked, his eyes going back to the patchwork of bruises on Sherlock’s bottom. “Any better?”

He felt rather than saw Sherlock nod into the pillow. “Yes.”

John was getting better at understanding Sherlock-through-a-pillow, although admittedly that one hadn’t been especially complicated. “Want some more?”

There was a pause, almost a hesitation—and then another nod. “Yes.”

John smiled to himself. And after all that bloody fuss over even letting him see, too. He obligingly scooped out another fingerful of cream and went back to treating the wounded, carefully and gently smoothing it over the marked skin. Sherlock was relaxing again under his hands now; if he’d been uncomfortable about being touched in such a sensitive area, he seemed to have got over it. Even as John watched, he sighed in what sounded very much like contentment, and curled his toes into the duvet.

He does enjoy being touched, John thought. Or at least he did with John, with someone he trusted. Sherlock might shut himself off from everyone else, and put out vibes that said ‘do not touch’ to the rest of the world, but he was enjoying this, and he wasn’t trying to hide it either. He’d enjoyed it last night, too; he’d liked being held and cuddled, even though as cuddles went it had been a damn awkwardly positioned one.

The idea that came next was a logical follow on, really. It had been awkward last night; having Sherlock’s head in his lap had been the best thing John could think of, but he hadn’t been able to do much more than rub Sherlock’s back and pet his hair the way they’d ended up. But there was nothing stopping him from offering a proper hug now, was there?

No, there wasn’t. The bed was the perfect place for it; there was room for both of them to be comfortable without having to do any complicated manoeuvring. And while he hadn’t actually spanked Sherlock this morning, he had given him a good whack, and he had promised comfort after punishment. Maybe it would be a good thing to start as he meant to go on, to help Sherlock get used to the idea of being close to him.

Decision made, he left off his arnica ministrations and patted Sherlock’s back. “Okay, all done. You can pull them up.”

Sherlock made a sleepy ‘hmmm’ noise into the pillow, and then with a bit of squirming around, he somehow managed to wriggle his pyjama bottoms back up without so much as lifting his head. John watched this performance in bemusement, unable to keep from grinning. Sherlock must be more than half asleep to be so completely unconcerned with his dignity.

Well, all the better, that. It meant Sherlock was less likely to protest a spontaneous cuddle.

John nudged Sherlock’s shoulder, pushing gently in the direction he wanted him to move. “Budge up a bit.”

That got him another sleepy noise, but Sherlock shifted himself over enough that John could slide onto the bed beside him. Deciding to just take the bull by its curly mop of horns, John wrapped an arm over Sherlock and tugged, encouraging Sherlock in the other direction this time. “Come here, you. Cuddle time.”

Sleepy or not, Sherlock’s head finally came up at that, his eyes meeting John’s in obvious surprise. The now wildly tousled hair and the pillow imprints on his face made him look years younger than he was—about _thirty_ years younger than he was—and John had to work hard not to grin.

“Cuddle time?” Sherlock echoed, and John had to work even harder not to grin. Sherlock sounded like he was trying very hard to pull off haughty and superior but was simply too sleepy to manage it.

“Yes,” he replied easily. “Cuddle time. I whacked you earlier, now you get comforted. I did promise that last night. And you agreed, remember?”

Sherlock watched him for a long moment more, his eyes narrowing, which in his current state only served to make him look rather adorably puzzled. Finally—and John could almost see it move across his face—he seemed to decide he was just too tired to bother trying to work this out any further or argue with it in any capacity. Instead, he rolled onto his side, shifted himself close enough to John to touch, and flopped—literally flopped—onto John’s shoulder, his eyes closing instantly.

John cast a bemused look at the curly head that had suddenly taken up residence on him, and thought, _Right. Well, that was easy_.

Chuckling—because he really couldn’t help it now—he managed to worm free the arm that Sherlock had trapped underneath him (with very little help from Sherlock, who felt like deadweight) and draped it around Sherlock’s shoulders. Settling himself into a comfortable position, he began to rub Sherlock’s back, letting his hand move gently back and forth. Sherlock, who apparently wasn’t quite asleep after all, made a noise that was almost a purr and nuzzled his face into John’s shoulder.

And then he said, in a tone that somehow managed to be hazy and scornfully imperious all at the same time, “Calling it cuddle time is insufferably condescending.”

He hadn’t even opened his eyes, and it was that more than anything else that made John crack up. The fit of giggles made Sherlock’s head bounce on his shoulder, and Sherlock gave a grunt of displeasure at the movement. “Sorry,” John said, still laughing, patting Sherlock’s back as he tried to get himself under control.

Sherlock huffed against his shoulder. “Condescending,” he repeated, in the same sleepily haughty tone. John thought it was frankly adorable, really, although he wasn’t about to say that to Sherlock.

“Absolutely,” he settled for saying instead, still patting Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock gave another huff. “You know I’m right.”

“Sherlock,” John said firmly, or at least as firmly as he could while he was still trying not to snicker. “Shut up and go to sleep.”

Apparently Sherlock thought that was a good idea, because without another word he turned his face more closely into John’s shoulder, snuggled in a bit, and did as he was told.

Bloody miracle, John thought wryly, and then decided he might as well take his own advice: _John, shut up and go to sleep_.

Two minutes and twenty-seven seconds later, he had.

 


End file.
